The Opposite of People
by alliwantistobreathe
Summary: "We're actors- we're the opposite of people!" - Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern The community theatre AU of BBC's The Musketeers you never knew you wanted. Athos as stage manager, Constance as costumes, Porthos as props/sets, Aramis as the quintessential Actor, D'Artagnan as the ingenue (because of course he is). Enjoy!
1. Overture

**_Note: _**_I'm really, really sorry about this. It just happened. And will probably keep happening for a few chapters, because I am weak and cannot write about Serious Things. Also, yes, they're performing Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance mainly because I think that would be funny and also it means there are muskets and swords and swashbuckling! I do not have the time or inclination to explain the plot in this story, however, so here's a wikipedia link if you're curious: wiki/The_Pirates_of_Penzance_

* * *

Treville is attempting to be reasonable.

"All I'm asking," he repeats, massaging his temples, "is that you wait until we open to tell him. It's just a month. A blip. It won't even register for your company. You're still in the middle of doing _Chicago_, for god's sake, you're not telling me you have to have him _now._"

He sounds so eminently sensible, thinks Athos. It's such an obvious solution to everyone's problems. Louis has no particular loyalty to anyone except those who flatter him and those who pay him. He will be out of their dinky little community group as soon as he gets a better offer. But everyone knows the Garrison Theatre needs him a whole hell of lot more than some big-money traveling company with a dozen other tenors just like him. Unfortunately, the Cardinal Company couldn't give any less of a shit what the Garrison Theatre needs.

Richelieu and Milady exchange a loaded glance.

"We really _couldn't _be more apologetic, Treville," Milady says silkily, and Athos feels like cracking her over the head with his official Stage Manager clipboard. Her blood-red lipstick matches her nails, like it always does, a look that would overwhelm a woman of lesser features. Milady, however, manages to look like one's wildest absinthe-fueled fantasy come to life and smelling of wildflowers. It is intensely distracting, and Athos takes another slug of sour coffee, silently reminding himself what a sick, sick man he is.

"But Louis is such a promising talent," she continues, her tone switching to brusque. "We do feel the need to snatch him up before anyone else gets to him, you understand?"

Milady shoots them all a brittle smile.

"It's just business, Treville," Richelieu adds. He strokes his steely-gray goatee, like the fucking Shakespearean villain he is.

"The theatre is a marketplace like any other. Your little… community… simply needs to become more competitive if you want to keep assets like our Louis. That's all there is to it."

At this, Treville loses his patience.

"Go and shove it up someone else's arse, Richelieu," he barks, pushing away from the table with a snarl on his face. "Athos, we're leaving."

Athos peels himself out of his chair, clutching his coffee and clipboard. Milady leans forward to watch them go, probably intentionally pulling her shirt that tight against her chest.

"Best of luck to you, darling," she purrs to Athos. _Damn_ her. He moves his clipboard lower on his person, manages a noncommittal growl and slouches after Treville.

"A month," the director mutters to him. "We have a month to find and employ and ultimately rehearse with a replacement Frederic or the Garrison will close because _Pirates of Penzance_ is our last _fucking _chance, Athos. This was their plan all along!"

Treville kicks open the backstage door to vent his feelings. It pops off its hinges and crashes to the floor, swirling up a storm of dust and cracked paint chips. Athos sighs.

"Louis' understudy – "

"Aramis can't hit the damn high notes, you know he can't. Besides, then I'd be out a Pirate King and he doesn't _have _an understudy, unless you count Sarge, which I don't, because if I put him on stage for any longer than I already have to he's going to stroke out. The man's eighty if he's a day. No. We have to replace Frederic and it has to be someone," Treville glances at the collapsed stage door, "who doesn't care how much we pay him."

* * *

"You don't even have to pay me." The kid on stage is about four seconds from literally getting on his knees at Athos' feet. Having spent the last several nights calling every casting agent in town, putting up notices in every local bar and coffee shop, and posting to a hundred different social media sites about the Garrison's dilemma, as well as drinking his entire store of brandy, Athos is exhausted, hungover as hell, and seriously not in the mood for this wannabe-actor I-will-shave-my-head-for-this-part nonsense.

"We just need someone older," he says. "Our Mabel's got about a decade on you."

"Not technically," Louis' understudy, the Pirate King, and the best friend Athos never wanted, Aramis, leans comfortably against the back wall, as disgustingly handsome and utterly unhelpful as ever. If there's anything that comforts Athos, it's that he can blame all this wasted time on Aramis anyway, seeing as the kid – Darren? Dagmar? D-something – was his idea.

"Anne's twenty-eight, and D'Artagnan's twenty-one. It's only seven years."

"Seven," Athos repeats drily. "Right. Look, D'Artagnan – " Aramis crosses the stage to clap Athos on the shoulder, and sneak a look at his clipboard.

"Athos, my friend," he interrupts, giving him one of his patented persuasive smiles. This particular incarnation has a twinkle of mischief behind the eyes. "You don't even have any other names on your list. The least you can do is let the kid sing." Athos drops his arms to cover the clipboard.

"I have _prospects_," he says defensively. Then he sighs.

"Fine," and the kid perks up instantly, "God help me, I'll give you one shot. We'll have you do a read-through with Anne and sing your song and if I don't like you then Treville definitely won't so you'll be done. Even if you do get the part, you've just kindly offered to waive your salary so don't expect us to pay you. Understood?"

"Understood," D'Artagnan grins broadly, and Athos has to admit, he has the youthful naiveté and idealism of Frederic in spades. Louis, whatever his talents, always made innocence look a touch too close to stupidity.

"CONSTANCE!" Athos bellows. Aramis shakes his head.

"She hates it when you do that."

"I FUCKING HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT!" a voice roars from backstage. Their young, overworked costume designer emerges from the wings, brandishing an enormous pair of cloth scissors. Her auburn hair is pulled into haphazard topknot, there are bags under her pretty blue eyes, and she looks murderous. "For the last time, Athos, I am the costume designer, not your errand girl!"

"Where's Anne?" Athos asks sweetly. Constance scowls.

"Not here," she replies furiously. "Unlike the rest of us, Anne has a life outside this godforsaken theatre and she wasn't called today, seeing as we no longer have a Frederic for her to do ALL of her scenes with." Aramis walks quickly over to Constance, taking the scissors, and ushering her towards center stage, where D'Artagnan is still waiting. He has not stopped staring at Constance since she came in. Athos thinks he might be drooling a little.

"You'll have to do it then, sweetheart,"Aramis tells her, swiping two scripts from Athos' desk. He pushes one into Constance's puzzled hands and the other into D'Artagnan's.

"Don't you _ever_ call me- do what?! Wait – oh!" Constance looks down at the script quickly, over to Aramis, and then up into D'Artagnan's eyes. Here she stops. "Oh," she says again, curiously. D'Artagnan clears his throat self-consciously.

"D'Artagnan," he says, taking a reluctant step back to hold out his hand to her. She takes it.

"Constance." They hold to each other's hands on a second too long, and Athos thinks again about the myriad of ways in which he plans to murder Aramis.

"If everyone's done," he says pointedly, and D'Artagnan and Constance break apart at once, blushing. "Could we try taking it from the top of the scene?"

* * *

Aramis lives a charmed life, and so Athos should have expected D'Artagnan was going to be good. He is good. He's _really_ good. Sure, his high notes aren't as pure as Louis' were, but he's got an edge to his voice that makes Frederic sound less like a choirboy and more like a kid who actually was raised by pirates. And if his chemistry with Anne is anywhere near the heat he and Constance were giving off, the audience will feel it in the back row.

Grudgingly, cursing himself, Athos must also admit to liking the kid. He's so eager, so thoroughly happy to be there- he really loves the theatre. It reminds Athos of himself, in his younger and less jaded years, pre-Milady, pre-Garrison, pre- all of this. It makes him feel something he hasn't since before _Rent_ left Broadway – hope.


	2. Act 1

"Guns!" The props guy (slash effects, slash combat choreographer- this really is a small theatre) Porthos, spins around, grinning. He points two large antique-looking pistols directly at D'Artagnan's chest. Porthos is a big, brawny man with a huge toothy smile that does not completely fill D'Artagnan with confidence in his sanity. He takes an almost involuntary step back and gulps.

"Porthos, you're scaring him," Flea, the pixie-esque blonde tech usually seen perched in various high places around the theater, swearing and kicking at the creaky lighting systems, pats D'Artagnan on the shoulder absently. Porthos chuckles and lowers the pistols.

"Sorry," he says. "Right, so what you'll want to remember about these is that they're incredibly fragile. You can't actually pull the trigger, because look." He mimes pointing one of the guns and shooting, giving the trigger a tug, and it collapses into several different pieces in his hand.

"Not a great look for a pirate!" Porthos reassembles the pieces too rapidly for D'Artagnan to figure out how he does it, and raises the second gun. "You just have to move the gun like you can feel the recoil - _pow!_ - and the smoke and sound effects will do the rest." He sets down both guns and smirks at Flea, who's messing with a circuit board that keeps sparking ominously.

"Right, love?"

"I'm not your love," she says, "and at the moment our sound system is held together with duct tape, yarn I stole from Constance, and miracles, so yeah. We'll do our fucking best." Porthos laughs, and D'Artagnan joins him, feeling slightly as though he's missing something.

"So… what's working here like, anyway?" he asks tentatively. Flea cocks her head to the side.

"An adventure," she replies, and plunges a screwdriver into the side of her circuit board like a knife into someone's ribs. Porthos watches her and shrugs.

"I stay for the people," he says. "They're like family. Athos, Aramis, Flea, Constance, Treville – no other reason needed." He smiles again, ruefully. "But the building, you might've noticed, is falling down 'round our ears. We need this."

"Yeah, uh, I've heard." D'Artagnan picks up one of the guns and fiddles with it. He has tried very hard to break in with this crowd, but it's difficult, bound together as they all are by shared history and a ramshackle theatre. And they all look at him funny, like they can't decide if he's going to save them or totally torpedo their one last chance. He can't decide either. He knows he's good, but he's never had to learn an entire leading role in less than a month. His costar, Anne, is quietly supportive, but he can sense her uneasiness with the whole thing.

"Well, you're just as good as Louis was at the beginning, too. And if you're Aramis' friend, then I trust you."

Friend is a strong word. Truthfully, he'd been in a bar, doing his nightly acoustic guitar gig, when Aramis sidled up to him and asked if he did any acting. As well dressed and suave as Aramis was, D'Artagnan had assumed he was a scout or an agent of some kind, and promptly told Aramis all about his university acting career and once-grand musical theatre dreams. Next morning, he found himself accepting a role for zero pay in a community production that was unlikely to attract a good showing of senior citizens, much less _real _talent scouts.

Constance had laughed when he'd told her that story.

"I can't imagine what he must've told you about us," she said, removing the pins from her mouth. She'd been measuring D'Artagnan for adjustments to the Frederic costume. "He can be seriously persuasive when he wants to be. It's what makes him a good actor. Arms out!"

D'Artagnan obeyed, and she stood mere centimeters in front of him, nose level with his collarbone, wrapping her tape measure around his chest and very studiously not looking at anything but those tiny numbers. Her citrusy perfume filled his senses.

"In by 2," she murmured. Then she flicked her eyes up briefly to look at him.

"You're taller than Louis was," she said. "But he was a bit of a chunk. You're…" she swallowed. "Y'know, narrower."

"Got it," His voice had come out a _lot_ huskier than he had intended. She'd turned away so quickly her flying hair hit him full across the face. He remembers furiously trying to think about the _Cats_ soundtrack in his head while she scribbled down her notes.

D'Artagnan shakes Constance out of his head for the moment, but he knows she'll be back. It's not only that she's beautiful, although _god,_ she is; it's that he feels like he can actually talk to her. She's confident, but she doesn't expect anything superhuman from him. She's warm and clever and superbly practical; either this musical goes well or it doesn't, and all any of them can do is their jobs.

He should really just ask her out already.

"Alright, time to give me that back," Porthos says, interrupting D'Artagnan's reverie. He takes back the pistol, and fixes D'Artagnan with a stern look.

"Aramis keeps them," he says darkly. "Puts them in his belt and carries them around like the ass that he is. Don't be like Aramis. Return your damn props."

"Will do. One hundred percent," D'Artagnan says seriously. Porthos nods.

"Now, my favorite part – swords!"

* * *

It's lucky this is a comedy, Porthos thinks, watching the ensemble muddle through the final battle sequence. If any of these people had to look genuinely dangerous with their swords, they might as well tear down the Garrison themselves.

He knows his career could have been very different. Could've been hired by a major production company, choreographing fights on Broadway or the West End, access to the best effects, the most authentic weapons, much more experienced actors. He knows this the same way he knows Aramis could easily be famous, with looks and charm and talent like his. They stayed for Athos initially. Because coming down to work for Treville as a stage manager after his directorial debut ended in catastrophe was basically the point where the poor guy hit bottom, hard. And they couldn't just leave him like that.

After a while, though, it had been more than just Athos. It had been Treville and Flea and Constance and the revolving door of amateur actors with lots of heart and very little talent. The Garrison Theatre, a strange little Bohemian dream, bringing culture to the masses mostly through luck and elbow grease – it had become their home.

"Fame would be bad for me, anyway," Aramis once told Porthos, on one of the nights when they took Athos out, so that if he was drinking at least he wasn't drinking on his living room floor. "I'd get a big head."

"Right," Porthos had drawled in response, tossing back the last of his beer. "Can't imagine what that would look like."

"I think," Aramis said loftily, "that was meant to insult me. But actors have to be confident, or we can't perform to our best."

"Then you must be," Porthos said, "A really _fucking_ good actor." At the time, several drinks in, they had found this hysterically funny and Athos returned with another round to find them weeping with laughter on each other's shoulders. He had smiled at them, a sight so beautiful Porthos still thinks the most original and perfectly executed fight sequence in the world will never compare to seeing his friend smile again.

"Sarge!" he shouts, suddenly noticing where the biggest inconsistency lay. "Your blocking's off, the pirates can't get around you. Where are you supposed to be?"

"About six feet to the right!" The woman playing Ruth, whose name Porthos never remembers, practically snarls the answer. He's taken to calling her Mother Superior in his head, so strongly does she remind him of the nuns in his parish grade school. She extends a sinewy, accusing arm towards Sarge.

"The Major-General was supposed to have been captured and put in the estate, but those idiots forgot in the middle of the fight so now he's just sitting by the Police watching the rest of us fight because he can't think of anything better to do!"

The pirates who were supposed to have taken Sarge hostage mutter amongst themselves, looking sheepish and slightly mutinous. Porthos glances over his shoulder for Treville, but he's nowhere to be found, no doubt working with D'Artagnan privately again. Whatever. Kid needs it.

"Alright," he says. "Sarge, if it happens again, just _move_. Pirates, it'll make more sense when Aramis is here to say his bit to the Major-General. From the top!"


	3. Act 2

"No, stop!" Treville cries, and waves his arms at D'Artagnan and Anne, who let go of each other's hands and drop character dispiritedly. "No, it's wrong, it's off, it's just – " He checks his watch.

"Damn. I have a meeting. Athos, fix – " he makes wild circular motions around his two leads. "All of this." He lets the stage door slam behind him. Anne flinches.

"What does that even mean?" she asks, sounding as annoyed as a woman as polite as her could probably ever sound. D'Artagnan throws his arms behind his head and groans, glaring at the ceiling. Athos studies the pair.

"I think…" He checks his notes. There are so many his script looks like an underpass in a bad neighborhood. He selects two sentences at random.

"D'Artagnan, I'm not feeling the urgency in the first half of the scene. And Anne, it's too stiff, too… stoic. I need emotional, I need naïve, I need…" He is fully aware that he sounds just as vague as Treville.

"Younger?" Anne supplies coolly. _Younger_. She's right, of course; they need Anne to match D'Artagnan's exuberance and impetuosity – they need her to be a teenager.

Athos, of course, says none of this. First rule of directing – never insinuate to an actress you wish she was younger/prettier/softer.

They never take it well.

He's waited too long to answer and Anne has turned away. She's lifting her long honey-colored hair off the back of her neck and fanning herself. Even in this nearly unconscious movement she's extraordinarily graceful, and Athos remembers once again why they cast her. She looks like a woman made of glass: regal, beautiful, unaffected, but capable of crumbling to pieces at the softest touch. It's pretty appealing, if you're into that sort of thing.

And she really is a wonderful actress. There is depth and humor in every tiny character decision she makes, even though Mabel isn't a particularly complex role. Still, Athos' trained eye can tell she's holding something back, and it frustrates him. She doesn't throw herself into the scenes the way D'Artagnan does, and it's messing with their chemistry.

Athos leans back in his chair, cracking his neck.

"I think we've just about beaten this to death for today," he says. "Anne, we need you at music practice with the rest of the General's daughters in thirty."

She nods, relaxing somewhat, and heads backstage. D'Artagnan watches her retreating figure enviously.

"I'm guessing you still need me for the scene with the policemen?" He sounds mournful.

"Just as soon as they're back from their lunch break. Tired already?" D'Artagnan's brow furrows.

"No," he says stubbornly.

"Well, good," Athos says brusquely, "because after the policeman scene we're going over the opening scene with Ruth and the pirates, and then _you've_ got music… then dinner – " D'Artagnan sags against the wall in relief – "and after that Porthos wants you for fight training –"

"Fine, fine!" D'Artagnan interrupts, waving his arms in surrender. Athos stops, feeling smug. "Yeah, I'm tired. I'm tired."

He rubs a hand roughly across his eyes, and Athos takes pity on him.

"Come and have a seat," he tells D'Artagnan, gesturing at Treville's vacated chair. "Do you drink coffee?"

"Nah, I tried in school during exams, but – "

"You do now." Athos does something he considers to be the ultimate in compassion, and hands his mug of the finest French Roast available in any of the cheap supermarkets over to D'Artagnan, who takes a sip and makes a strangled noise.

"Its… good, yeah," D'Artagnan says, far too unconvincingly for an actor of his caliber. Athos tries very hard not to take offense.

"You'll get used to it," he says. "It'll help. And I'm sorry, but you've got to be disciplined right now. No pub crawls, or clubbing, or staying up all night on the Internet or whatever it is the youth are doing these days." He finishes this sentence in a deadpan that makes D'Artagnan chuckle.

"Oh come on, you're not _that _much older than me."

Yes, thinks Athos. Yes I am. But he just shrugs, saying nothing.

D'Artagnan puts his feet up on the desk and adopts a cocksure grin.

"Okay, so what else have you got for me?" he asks, with only a touch of sarcasm. "Tricks of the trade, how to stay on your toes, all that."

Athos raises his eyebrows.

"Accept every audition you're offered," he begins, settling into the professorial role. "Do your blocking while you memorize your lines, you'll connect the motion with the right words. Never get involved with a costar, at least not during the production. I knew a director on Broadway who used to say, 'When in doubt, stop acting!' which is good advice, if the actor is–"

"Wait," D'Artagnan cuts in. "You worked on Broadway?" Shit. Shit.

"Briefly," Athos says, through gritted teeth. D'Artagnan seems to realize he's hit a nerve, but there's something in his eyes now, something Athos has seen way too often. It's the obvious thought:

_If you were on Broadway, then _what_ are you doing here?_

A fair question, and one he has no interest in answering.

Luckily, he's saved by the arrival of Constance, who barrels in with a determined look on her face.

"No, Constance."

"Five minutes, or he's going on stage naked."

"He's busy!"

"Five minutes! I'm nearly done! I've put the rest of my stuff on hold for this!"

It's going to be longer than five minutes. Athos knows it's going to be longer than five minutes because those two lose track of time whenever they start talking. It is not "heartwarming" and "adorable," no matter what the rest of the cast has to say. It is wasted time.

But D'Artagnan is giving him the most pitifully hopeful look on the face of the earth.

"Fine, go," he says, weakening. "But seriously, be back when the policemen get here." D'Artagnan is out of his chair before Athos even finishes the word 'go'.

"And I'm taking my coffee back!"

* * *

The practice accompanist at the Garrison Theatre is, in fact, Treville's mother. This is an arrangement that works out well for everyone; she is a complacent woman, perfectly willing to repeat the same four lines a hundred times, and they don't have to pay her.

But there's always at least one day a week she has a doctor's appointment, or a bridge tournament, or a distant cousin's wedding to attend, and they are forced to resort to their backup pianist: Aramis.

Aramis doesn't mind helping. Music is the reason he got interested in show business the first place – he does consider himself sometimes to have been sidetracked by acting. But he's not as patient as Madame Treville, and he definitely has favorites.

They do not include the ragtag crew of actors, ranging in age from 14 to 57, who are supposed to be his dashing troupe of pirates.

The third time Lucien's teenaged voice breaks on the highest note and the ensemble dissolves into laughter, Aramis slams his head down on the piano keys.

"Aw, come on Aramis. That's funny!"

"Shut up, guys!" Lucien shouts, forcing his voice unnaturally low.

"Ah, happens to the best of us, Lucien!"

"Everybody's fourteen once!"

"_Only _once, luckily!"

"Could somebody please tell me," Aramis says, lifting his head dejectedly, "who I'm supposed to have next?"

"It's Mabel and the other girls for 'Poor Wand'ring One'."

"Oh, thank God." Aramis drops his head back onto the piano. "Send them in here and go bother Porthos with a fight scene or something."

The pirates trickle out, still laughing at Lucien's squeals of protest, and Aramis replaces his sheet music, feeling renewed. Mabel, or rather Anne, _is _one of his favorite people to work with. She's an accompanist's dream, always right on cue, and near perfect pitch. Her voice is marvelous, clear as a bell but unexpectedly rich and full, just like her laughter, and her intellect, and her conversation, and Aramis is getting away from himself.

So he might have a crush. It's not like he plans to do anything about it. Athos would kill him, and Aramis would let him because he's done this far too often before. First it was Isabel, when they did _West Side Story_; then Marsac, during _Guys and Dolls_; then Adele, _Oklahoma_; then Marsac again, last summer during _Jesus Christ Superstar_, because apparently he's a glutton for punishment.

All of them left the theatre eventually (Isabel even quit acting, which he thinks was a touch excessive), due to "artistic differences" with Aramis' commitment phobia. Not phobia exactly – commitment insecurity. The loving part comes easily to him; it's the being with that causes problems.

Porthos reckons it's chronic.

"You've got to stop being obsessed with beginnings," he said once. "You think it's not worth it if it doesn't stay as exciting as it is in the beginning the whole way through. But you have to appreciate the middle bits. The middle bits, y'know – that's life."

"Well, thanks for the tip, Nora Ephron."

"AND you can't take anything seriously, jackass."

Aramis is more inclined to say that he simply hasn't found the right person yet.

Not that Anne, who's coming in now trailed by the three women playing Mabel's sisters, is necessarily the right person. But he's never been one to fail for lack of trying – except in this case, he is_ categorically_ not going to try because again: the theatre's best interests, Athos' murderous impulses.

He makes it through the entire rehearsal without being too flirtatious or looking too much in her direction. But Anne lingers after the other actresses depart, resting her crossed arms on the piano and smiling at him.

"How are you, Aramis?" she asks. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

"It's a busy time," Aramis replies lightly. "I've been filling in for the Madame and you've been with D'Artagnan practically every minute of every day."

"Oh yes, D'Artagnan," she says, crinkling her nose. "He's great, much easier to work with than Louis, but…" she lowers her voice, "he makes me feel old."

She looks childishly put out when she says this, and the contrast makes Aramis laugh out loud.

"Old?! Anne, you're not even thirty!" Anne shoots him a teasing look.

"I'm ancient for an actress, you know," she retorts. "I've only got a few good years left before I'm stuck playing villains and housewives for the rest of my career."

She sighs mournfully, adding, "And I'd make a terrible housewife. I can't cook at all."

"I wouldn't worry," Aramis says, before he can stop himself. "You don't have the kind of beauty that fades."

Her face loses its mischief at this statement. She looks puzzled and too pleased so he adds quickly, humorously, "And everyone can cook a little, if they're really trying. If I can, you can."

"Can you?" Anne hums skeptically. "You might have to prove that to me."

She isn't a natural coquette by any means, but her intention is clear, and Aramis is too charmed to refuse her.

"I'm always happy to cook dinner for a culinarily-challenged friend," he says, emphasizing ever so slightly the word 'friend'.

"Tomorrow at 8?" Anne suggests smoothly, unfazed. "I'll bring the wine."

"That sounds… good."

She smiles softly, and gasps a little when she catches a glimpse of the wall clock.

"Until then, Aramis."

Aramis watches her go, and as soon as she's out of earshot, he lets his head fall flat onto the piano again.


	4. Act 3

There are three things in the world that Constance truly feels passionate about. They are: her job, the motorbike her dad gave her for her last birthday, and breakfast pastries.

So when D'Artagnan presents her with a warm, exquisitely buttery croissant from her favorite bakery alongside her usual coffee, apropos of absolutely nothing, she realizes she might really be in trouble.

"D'Artagnan," she says, "this place is halfway across town. Did you get up at five?" He looks sheepish.

"I just thought, it's our last Friday before tech week. Might as well treat ourselves."

"I don't even remember telling you about it!"

"It was in passing," D'Artagnan says. "Look, if you don't want it…" He opens his mouth wide to take an exaggerated bite, but Constance, forgetting herself entirely, squeaks and snatches it. D'Artagnan's satisfied smirk should not make her stomach feel as swoopy as it does, so she tears off a huge chunk of croissant and stuffs it in her mouth with a glare.

"I guess that's gratitude," he says mildly, watching her. Constance swallows.

"Thank you."

"Anytime." And he means that, Constance thinks. He would remember a random conversation about a friend's favorite bakery, and decide to wake up early and buy her a special breakfast, without finding the slightest thing unusual about his behavior.

Look, she won't deny she thinks he's gorgeous; still, there's a lot about D'Artagnan that she's actively avoided in other men. He's impulsive, he's stubborn, he's smart but doesn't have goals or plans for the future, and sometimes his sense of humor veers asshole.

But other times he does things like this. And it's all very hard to work out in her head.

"Any idea what this meeting's about?" D'Artagnan asks. They've all been called early into the conference room for some kind of general production announcement. Constance shrugs.

"No idea. I don't think it's bad news. We'd have heard rumors before now if something's wrong."

"Athos doesn't look happy, though," D'Artagnan notes, motioning at the stage manager, who is standing at the front near Treville, frowning at the middle distance. Treville is talking to an unknown woman in high-heeled boots and a dress Constance can tell from here was expensive, hand-beaded, probably with fair-trade materials.

"No, he doesn't. I wonder who the woman is," she says. "She paid too much for her dress. I could make something that looks just like it for a third of what she bought it for, I bet."

"Have a heart, Constance, most people don't know as much about clothes as you do," D'Artagnan says fondly.

She takes another huge bite of croissant to hide her grin.

"Alright, everyone," Treville calls out, turning from the woman and clapping his hands. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've called this meeting." He smiles, pleased with himself, and waits for laughter.

"I'm not sure if that joke really applies in this situation," Aramis remarks instead. "Because you _have_, in fact, called a meeting, and we _are_ actually all waiting to hear why."

"And it's bloody early!" chimes in Porthos, to general grumbles of assent.

"Pipe down," says Treville, irritated. "I hope you're all a bit more polite to my guests here. Everyone, this is Ninon de Larroque from the Larroque Foundation for the Arts. They're going to be working with us on… economic growth."

Constance's heart sinks.

"Oh no," she whispers. Instinctively, she takes hold of D'Artagnan's wrist. "Oh, no."

"What's wrong?" D'Artagnan whispers back. He slips his wrist free and squeezes her hand instead. "Economic growth, that's what we've all been talking about, isn't it?"

"Not like this," she answers. "Not _foundations_."

"What do you mean,_ 'foundations'_?"

"Hi everyone," Ninon de Larroque steps forward, smiling brilliantly. "So what you all need to know right now is that you're doing an excellent job with this show, especially considering all the hiccups you've had along the way. What I'm here to do is make sure you get an audience for your hard work. My assistant and I – " at this, a slender young woman with a clipboard inclines her head, and Constance has a flash of recognition.

"Fleur!" she yelps slightly.

"Who's Fleur?" D'Artagnan squints at Ninon and her assistant. "The secretary?"

"Fleur Baudin," Constance nods. "We went to university together. God, she knew me back when I was still with Jacques!"

"Who's _Jacques?!_" Constance squeezes his hand again.

"Absolutely no one," she says confidently. "Now shh, I'm trying to listen."

"…behind the scenes, mostly; we won't be at all in your way. And that's it for the present, but I'm really hoping, with everyone's help, we can work on developing a mutually beneficial partnership that lasts far into the future."

There are a few muted claps as Ninon concludes her speech. Constance pulls D'Artagnan forward through the crowd as it begins to disperse.

"Foundations," she explains, "always have an ulterior motive. They'll want to change out the personnel, censor our shows - I don't know what Athos and Treville can be thinking."

"Maybe they're desperate," D'Artagnan suggests.

Constance taps her old friend on the shoulder. Fleur whirls around. She looks so put together now, Constance thinks, in her blazer and heels and salon blowout. For a moment, Constance feels uncomfortable in her well-worn work clothes, but then Fleur's face breaks into that gap-toothed, goofy smile Constance knows so well.

"Constance!" Fleur says delightedly. "I didn't know this was where you worked!" She threw her arms around Constance's neck, forcing her to let go of D'Artagnan's hand, which she'd nearly forgotten she'd been holding.

Fleur steps back, looking between the two of them pointedly.

"Sorry," Constance says quickly. "Fleur, this is D'Artagnan, he's our lead, just joined the company."

"Great to meet you," D'Artagnan says politely. "Speaking of, I actually should get to rehearsal. I'll see you later, Constance."

Fleur watches him go.

"Well, he's definitely better looking than the Ex-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named," she says.

"No, it's not – he's a friend, and not what I came to talk to you about," Constance clarifies. "Fleur, this new job – Ms. de Larroque – what are your plans? What is she going to do here?"

"Ninon?" Fleur's eyes light up. "We're going to do exactly what she said! Help you access an audience. Connie, this company – it's a dream! All I do, all day, is look for worthy artistic ventures that we can help, through fundraising or marketing, anything. That's Ninon's whole ethos – spreading arts education, supporting the underdog, changing the corporate culture. It's everything we talked about doing in school." She sounds like a pamphlet, and it worries Constance.

"Yeah, but what makes a 'worthy' venture? What will we have to do to 'deserve' the money?"

"She's not going to try and change you, if that's what you're asking," Fleur says soothingly. "It's not like that."

Constance absently reaches out to touch the wall next to her, like a talisman. She sometimes imagines she can feel this building alive, vibrating with voices and memories and the love of the weird and wonderful people who pass through it. She'd never have left Jacques, if she hadn't begun working here. Not that she hadn't wanted to: she had, more than anything, but she never felt like she had anywhere else to go until the Garrison.

"Even if you don't believe me," Fleur adds gently, "believe your bosses, they hired us for a reason."

"I do believe you, Fleur," Constance says, smiling and giving her friend a kiss on the cheek. "Of course I believe you." She pushes her doubts to the back of her mind. D'Artagnan's right, anyway. Maybe they are desperate.

"So," she says, changing the subject. "We should get coffee sometime soon."

But Fleur is no longer paying attention; her eye has been caught by something over Constance's shoulder. When Constance turns, she sees it's Flea, who is looking appreciatively back at Fleur.

"Hi," says the tech. Fleur bites her lower lip.

"Hi," she replies sweetly. Constance takes this as her cue.

* * *

Yesterday afternoon, when Treville had poked his head out his office door and called Athos in to join the meeting he'd had to miss much of the day's rehearsal for, Athos was expecting to chat logistics with the orchestra people, or negotiate with some suppliers. But those guys were generally scruffy, hoodie-wearing men, not the two polished businesswomen who instead greeted him.

"Ladies," Treville said, shutting the door behind him. "Let me introduce our stage manager, Athos. Athos, this is-"

"Ninon de Larroque," the taller of the two women interrupted, shaking his hand firmly. "And this is my PA, Fleur Baudin." Fleur, younger than she looked at first glance, smiled and waved brightly.

Athos suddenly found himself wishing he'd chosen something other than his usual crumpled button-down and jeans this morning. Ninon de Larroque was probably thirty, and she wore well the kind of faux-Bohemian clothes that are actually very upscale. Her blonde curls were artfully swept back, leaving tantalizing tendrils loose over her neck, and the air around her hinted of perfume. She was obviously a woman who knew how to make an impression, and Athos was not immune.

Couple that with the fact that she also gave him a rapid, interested once-over, and he was quite effectively thrown off his stride.

"Ninon and Fleur are from the Larroque Foundation for the Arts," Treville continued. "I contacted them a few months ago about getting some fundraising, but… we've been discussing a few other options."

"Advertising," Ninon said swiftly. "My family's foundation doesn't usually work with theatres – most of our fundraising goes towards small galleries, artists with political or charitable organizations, things like that. But I'm trying to expand our portfolio, and I'm absolutely thrilled by your work here. Did you know you're the only independent, amateur theatre in your whole county?"

"Yes," Athos had replied, feeling nonplussed. "I did."

"Anyway," Ninon went on unfazed, "what I can do is help you get the word out about your productions, see if we can start selling more tickets and getting community support. Benefactors, you understand?"

"What will be our responsibilities in attracting these benefactors?"

"At the moment, nothing. We'll take care of it. Just keep working on your show now, and when it's over we can talk about various adjustments to be made within your existing structures."

It was the word 'adjustments' that had troubled Athos.

"Look," he began cautiously. "I'm not unfamiliar with foundations like yours, and while I'm sure they do good work, there's always an agenda. What's in this for you?"

"Athos," Treville said warningly, but Ninon had accepted the challenge with a smile dancing around her lips.

"Any business has to have an agenda, Athos," she said. "Ours is just the usual one. The more diversified we are in the groups we support, the more donations we'll get."

"All due respect, but I'm not exactly convinced. How much do you really know about theatre?"

"All due respect, but how much do _you_ know about marketing? I've seen your audience demographics." Her assistant's poorly covered chuckle had alerted Athos to the fact that he'd stepped just a little too close to Ninon. He moved back, clearing his throat.

"I've laid out a fairly detailed plan dedicated to filling seats for _Pirates of Penzance_ within the next week or so, I hope you'll look it over with Treville," Ninon told him, still watching him curiously. She had not moved at all.

"In the meantime," Treville said, looking harried. "We'll all meet with the company tomorrow morning before rehearsal, let them know what's going on."

When Ninon and Fleur shook hands and departed, Athos rounded on Treville.

"You really trust her?" he asked. "Come on, Treville, there's a reason we've stayed so independent all this time. What about – Christ, I don't know, artistic integrity?"

"Artistic integrity is going to close us down, Athos," Treville replied tiredly. "Ninon knows what she's doing. You know the Wren Company, that all-female Shakespearean troupe? Saved them from bankruptcy.

"And look, she's genuinely interested in the Garrison itself, as an entity. She even waived their usual fee for us!"

Athos was forced to accept the director's logic.

"Let the record state that I still think this is a bad idea," he said.

"So stated," Treville said, shaking his head. "Get back to work."

Athos was on his way out before Treville's voice had stopped him again.

"By the way, Athos," he said, smirking. "Awfully pretty, wasn't she?"

Athos slammed the door behind him.

He isn't encouraged to hear so many similarly uneasy sentiments echoed by the company in the wake of Ninon's presentation. Aramis and Porthos wait for him until after he's finished addressing everyone's questions, slouching by the windows.

"Can she do it?" Porthos asks dubiously.

"She seems confident enough," Aramis says. Athos runs a hand through his hair.

"Treville trusts her," he says. "And frankly, we don't have the luxury of refusing help at this point." They both nod, grudgingly.

"You can trust me, too," Ninon de Larroque herself has appeared behind him, and all three men stand up instantly straighter. But she is only talking to Athos.

"I know I'm not familiar with this world, exactly," she says. "But I'm familiar with the money. I can deliver, I promise." She fixes him with that same bright, intrigued look.

"I think what you all do is worthwhile. I have no interest in changing anything, just enhancing."

"I apologize, Ms. de Larroque," Athos says. "But it's nuanced language like that that gives you just a little more space than I'm comfortable with. Forgive me if I withhold judgment, for the moment at least."

"You're forgiven," Ninon responds immediately. "And I will accept your withholding, however unnecessary, provided you never call me 'Ms. de Larroque' again."

"Sorry, Ninon – "

"It's fine," and she holds up a hand to stop him. "You're something of a cynic, aren't you?"

"I think I'd call it realism."

"Ah, realism, the last defense of the defeatist." Ninon smiles at him, eyes sparking. Surprisingly, he finds himself enjoying this. Whatever her motives, she's not backing down at all and he has to admire her for that. He meets her gaze steadily.

"All you know about us, and this theatre," he says, "and you think I'm defeatist?"

"Athos, have dinner with me."

Athos hears Aramis start coughing loudly. Porthos hits him several times on the back.

"Hay fever," he explains innocently. Ninon looks back at Athos, whose mind seems to have short-circuited.

"For work - to talk business, you mean," he manages to say.

"No," Ninon replies gently, lifting one eyebrow. "I don't."

He's pretty sure he actually hears Porthos whistle quietly behind him, for which the idiot is going to_ fucking_ pay.

"I don't – I mean, I'm not– " Ninon is no longer paying attention, but digs around in her purse, eventually emerging with a business card.

"Here," she says, passing it to him perfunctorily. "My personal number's on the back. If you ring, and I hope you do, we won't talk about business at all." Then she is gone in a swirl of patchouli, and Aramis is gripping his shoulder, shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Well, that was intense," D'Artagnan, who Athos hadn't even noticed had joined them, is grinning like Christmas has come early.

"Still got it, haven't you?" Porthos says, elbowing him in the side. "Although what the hell 'it' is, who knows!"

"Some woman like handsome, successful men," muses Aramis, recovering. "Others, evidently, like moody stage managers with sadness beards. There's no accounting for taste, Porthos." D'Artagnan and Porthos crack up.

"You're calling her, right?" Porthos says cheerfully. "Tell me you're calling her."

"I'm not calling her," Athos grunts, shoving the card deep into the recesses of his jacket pocket.

"Ahhhh, come _on_!"

"Athos, it's my duty as your friend to inform you that if you do not call this gorgeous, deluded woman, you've officially lost any and all rights to my wingman services."

"I'm not calling her, Aramis."

She is everything he has ever found attractive in a woman: beautiful, quick, self-assured, challenging. She knocks him off-balance in way he hasn't been in ages, and she likes him. As badly dressed and ill-tempered as he is.

He's going to throw the damn card away as soon as possible. He's too busy, he drinks too much, he's still hung up on his ex – any excuse will do. But this is a road he has no intention of going down again.


	5. Act 4

Aramis keeps checking his watch, and D'Artagnan does not blame him. He, Aramis, Athos, and Porthos are the only ones left in the theatre, or more specifically, in Treville's office. Treville left an hour ago, yawning, telling them _wonderful job at rehearsal today, oh since it's just the four of you, you wouldn't mind filing these accounts for me would you, Athos knows how, terribly busy, terribly busy. Cheerio, I pay all your salaries. Well, except yours, D'Artagnan old boy._

"I was only here," Porthos says, slamming shut his file drawer with a deafening clang, "because one of Aramis' idiot pirates snapped his saber in half today and I had to stay late and fix it."

"They're not _my_ pirates," Aramis snaps. "Don't make _me_ own them. Why doesn't Treville just get a secretary?"

"He can't afford a secretary."

"Athos, don't be practical when we're all trying to have a good moan."

"For a really revolutionary idea," Porthos says, ripping open yet another folder, "he could just do the work himself."

"He probably is busy."

"Athos, I don't know if you think that's helping, or what, but I'm gonna smother you with Fiscal Year 2014's Prospectus Whaddyacallit."

"I'm not even getting paid," adds D'Artagnan, miserably.

"And the lovely Constance isn't here to cut you any breaks," Athos says dryly, making Aramis and Porthos cackle. D'Artagnan feels his face heat up.

"If you think she cuts me any breaks, then we're not talking about the same Constance," he fires back, unable to prevent affection from sneaking into his voice.

"That's adorable," Porthos says, shaking his head. D'Artagnan wonders if it's even worth denying at this point.

"I – we – she – I think this is the point where I bring up Ninon de Larroque again."

"Oh yes, because _that_ hasn't been discussed enough yet," grumbles Athos over the whoops of Porthos and Aramis.

"I think we'll keep you, D'Artagnan," Aramis says, grinning at Porthos, who smiles back. D'Artagnan shrugs insouciantly.

He's been getting much easier in their company, but there's still a gulf of experience. The three of them bounce off each other with the comfort of ancient camaraderie. The only time Athos ever looks completely relaxed is when he's flanked by one or both of them, yelling at him for being too strict or making funny asides in his ear.

That Athos, the smart and sardonic manager who holds the whole production carefully in his head, strategizing down to the last detail, is the one everyone loves working for. The person Athos is when he's with Aramis and Porthos is the Athos they all try and remember when he shows up wrecked in the middle of the week, or when he falls into one of his more taciturn moods.

For some reason, D'Artagnan is being slowly integrated into this tightly knit trio. It started with Athos, simply by virtue of the long hours they both work, rehearsing and re-rehearsing, talking about everything under the sun – especially theatre. D'Artagnan thinks the arrangement is a bit uneven – he gets the benefit of Athos' tutelage and friendship, and what Athos gets out of it he's not really sure. But whatever it is, Aramis and Porthos seem to think it's worthwhile, and they've welcomed him like a fellow soldier in their two-man crusade to keep Athos functional and content. Results are mixed at best, but they're in it for the long haul. And so is he, or at least that's what D'Artagnan has been thinking more and more these days.

"How many files are left?" Athos asks suddenly. They all scan the detritus of cardboard and file folders littering the office floor.

"Just the one box," Porthos says, holding it up.

"Alright. You three can go home, I'll finish up here."

"Athos, you're my hero," Aramis says, immediately leaping up and glancing again at his watch. "Honestly, I'd stay but I'm already late. Take care of yourself."

"I owe you a steak dinner," Porthos says, dropping the box with a crash and sagging with relief. "Thanks, mate."

D'Artagnan waits for them to leave.

"Are you sure?" he says. "I've got no plans, I can stay if you need help."

"D'Artagnan, you already stay later than half the cast, every day," Athos says, raising his eyebrows. "Quit being a try-hard and go home."

D'Artagnan nods. He isn't trying to kiss ass – not much anyway. He really just doesn't mind helping. But he knows better than to press the issue, and simply says goodnight.

Waiting for the bus in the dark, while D'Artagnan has gotten very used to it over the past three weeks, is always boring, so he thinks at least he can lose a few minutes of time on the number his caller ID doesn't recognize. He is not expecting the feminine voice that glides over the airwaves, a voice as smooth and smoky as bittersweet chocolate.

"Hello, I'm calling for a… D'Artagnan? Is there anyone there by that name?"

"Sorry, yes, that's me."

"Wonderful," and he can hear the slow smile in the word. "I hope it's not too late to call?"

"No, no, not at all. What is this concerning?"

"D'Artagnan, my name is Milady de Winter, and I work with the Cardinal Theatre Company, uptown. I'm looking at your résumé here, and it's… impressive."

D'Artagnan tries frantically to call to mind every achievement he's ever listed on a résumé. Impressive? He thinks his headshots were pretty good.

"Right, er, thank you! I'm pretty sure I sent that in absolutely ages ago."

"We get around to everyone eventually," Milady says breezily. "But I don't call everyone in person – you understand. I'd love to hear what you've been up to since then."

"Well, I've been doing acoustic gigs, and more recently I've taken on the role of Frederic in the Garrison Theatre's _Pirates of Penzance_, our opening night's next week if – "

"No, D'Artagnan," Milady laughs a little, a low sound that shudders down his spine and makes him feel inexplicably guilty. "I mean I'd like you to come in for an audition. As soon as is convenient for you."

An _audition_. He does remember the Cardinal Company – flashy, big name productions, travels all over the region. They pay their actors well – really well. He'd submitted the résumé as a sort of might-as-well-shoot-for-the-moon thing, and promptly forgot all about it once he joined the Garrison.

D'Artagnan makes several split-second decisions in his head. He does not want to leave the Garrison. But he's not an idiot, and he is also broke without other prospects. An audition can do no harm that he can see; if Treville eventually wants to hire him to the permanent cast at the Garrison, this'll help negotiate for a higher salary, something like what Aramis makes. If Treville doesn't hire him (and he forces himself to consider this potentiality), then he'll need another option fast.

"I've got a bit of a break Monday morning before my call time," he says finally. "Could you fit me in then?"

"Monday…" Milady considers. "Yes, that looks clear on our end. I'm looking forward to it, D'Artagnan. Very much." D'Artagnan swallows.

"Good – excellent. Er, I'll see you then."

"Have a lovely night." She ends the call with a definitive click.

D'Artagnan's bus arrives, and he plops down on the seat, slightly in shock. The feeling lasts long enough for him to very nearly miss his stop.

* * *

It is 8:30, Friday evening, and Aramis, home at last, has not dressed up. He has not lit any candles, or put on any music, or bought flowers, or even set the table properly, because this is not a date, and he is not trying to date her. It's just a meal.

He's halfway through chopping the tomatoes for pasta sauce when the doorbell rings.

"It's open," he yells, and he does not go and get the door for her, because he wouldn't do that if it were Porthos or Athos or even Constance and so he's not going to do that for another woman who is only his friend.

In spite of all of this, when Anne peeks over his shoulder to look at the food, holding a bottle of Chianti and making appreciative humming noises, he realizes instantly he's made a huge mistake.

"Ooh, I love penne alla vodka," she says. "Where do you keep your corkscrews?"

It's not that she looks especially different – in fact, she's still wearing her clothes from rehearsal, except she's tossed some diaphanous, sky-blue tunic thing over her tank top, and it flutters gently whenever she moves. That's… distracting, but it's not the reason Aramis suddenly knows that his plans for a friendly-with-a-capital-F dinner have gone out the window.

No, it's just the fact of having her here, in his apartment, biting her lip as she battles with a corkscrew and tells him about a long-ago holiday in Italy. She's so real, so tangible to him now. While he has been fighting with himself over all the terrible things she represents, Anne has simply existed, with her individual thoughts and needs and quirks and desires, completely unaware of and unconcerned with her Grand Significance in the history of Aramis' Relationships.

He feels guilty for having thought of her like that, and yet, he's more attracted to her than ever. Because, you know, he's only just realized that she does in fact have an inner life of her own. The Constance in his mind slaps him, as she is wont to do frequently in reality whenever he starts navel-gazing and forgetting about the rest of the world.

Anne selects two glasses from his cabinets and pours enough wine in both to make Aramis raise his eyebrows. She catches his look and turns slightly pink.

"I think we both need it, don't you?" she says. "It's been that kind of week."

"You're right," he says, smiling wryly and adding the tomatoes to the pot. "That kind of few weeks, to be completely honest. Would you mind getting the cream from the fridge for me?"

They begin a comfortable back and forth while Aramis cooks, Anne fetches ingredients and they both drink until the laughter comes easier and the conversation goes deeper. By the time they sit down to eat, the wine is three-quarters gone and they're talking about their families.

"I'm guessing…" Aramis studies her. "Two little sisters, divorced parents. They didn't want you to become an actress, but you rebelled and ran away to drama school with dreams of stardom. But your heart was too easily swayed by the plucky crew at the Garrison, and now…" he shrugs meaningfully.

Anne's mouth quirks.

"Well, not too bad," she says. "One younger brother, and I didn't even know I wanted to be an actress until I fell in love with it my first year of university. I never ended up at drama school – you're right, my parents hated the idea. So I stayed where I was, and - " she raises her glass for a toast - "I have a dual degree in English and Education."

"Very impressive," he tells her, clinking his glass with hers. Her expression is pensive.

"My parents aren't divorced," she says hesitantly. "But they're not… happy. Do you know what I mean?"

The eyes that meet his are shining and unsure. Aramis takes a deep breath.

"Only child," he says at last. "I did go to drama school, and it wasn't what my parents wanted, but they're supportive, in their way. My mother – " and he hasn't told many people this, because of the looks on their faces – "my mother wanted me to be a priest."

Anne chokes on her bite of pasta.

"A priest? You?" she says, and to her credit most people are even more incredulous than that.

"She's Spanish," he says by way of explanation. "Very Catholic, you know how it goes." She dimples, like she's going to laugh, but resists the impulse.

"So will you go to the seminary if the Garrison does close?" she teases, a giggle on the edge of her voice.

"Well, of course," he answers, spectacularly sarcastic. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have someone like me." Then, finishing his wine, he adds more seriously, "I don't actually know what I'll do if the Garrison closes. Find another troupe, maybe, hopefully not too far from wherever Athos and Porthos end up."

"Mm, yes," Anne nods, "you three are kind of codependent." She empties her glass as well.

"The Garrison… it was my break, like everyone else's."

"You're already talking about it in the past tense."

"It was – It _is_ supposed to be a footnote. I'm supposed to build my resume here and then keep on moving. That was the plan…" she trails off.

"But?"

"But if we close," Anne continues, "I think I'll probably go back and teach. Reading Shakespeare instead of performing it. Talking about Ibsen's use of visual metaphor, or something."

"That isn't what you want," Aramis can't help but say, because it's obvious by the line of her shoulders and the set of her mouth.

"It's secure," she says firmly. "And I don't want… I don't want to work without everybody else."

Because she looks so stern right now, and because he's buzzed, and just as terrified of losing that damn theatre as she is, Aramis reaches across the table and takes Anne's hand. He brings the palm to his lips, tasting salt and vanilla.

Anne goes beautifully still.

"Aramis," she says quietly, "you don't have to – "

"I want to." And he means it, for tonight at least, means it as much as he's ever meant anything.

When she kisses him Aramis forgets that there is anything else.


	6. Act 5

D'Artagnan thinks that the Cardinal Company's studios look like an expensive salon. Everything's done up in white and chrome, there are signed headshots all over the walls, and he keeps feeling like he's going to scuff the weird, shiny floors. Furthermore, the only people who appear to work here are young professionals with ridiculous haircuts.

Case in point: the stocky young man sitting across from D'Artagnan, whistling something from Phantom of the Opera. His long black curls are pulled into a ponytail that puts one in mind of a floppy dog's ear, all tucked under a plaid trilby. The effect is almost cartoonish.

He appears to notice D'Artagnan's staring, and smiles widely. "Here for an audition?" he asks placidly. "Exciting! I'm just in for a salary meeting, blah. That Richelieu, bloody miser!"

D'Artagnan schools his face into something he hopes resembles commiseration.

"Great boss, though! I don't mean to worry you!" the other man giggles. "I'm Louis, I'm new to the company." He shakes D'Artagnan's hand.

"Louis," D'Artagnan repeats. "You didn't… happen to work at the Garrison Theatre downtown at all?" Louis's eyes widen in exaggerated guilt.

"You've got me, I did," he replies. "Yeah… didn't want to leave like that, really, bit of a nasty break but… actors have to jump on opportunities like the Cardinal Company! Too much competition in this business to be squeamish, don't you think?"

"I dunno," D'Artagnan answers stiffly, his hackles rising. "Guess I wasn't too squeamish to take your place."

"Oh, have you?" Louis does not look jealous or threatened by this, as D'Artagnan had supposed he might. He seems rather pleased. "Good for you! Do send my love to all the little people – _hee_, sorry, just joking – gosh, Athos, Treville, Constance, the whole lot. And Anne of course," he adds, as an afterthought. "I don't think she ever liked me much."

Then he lowers his voice further: "_Frigid_, you know," he tells D'Artagnan confidentially.

D'Artagnan's nostrils flare, and he digs his elbows into his thighs, trying not to look as irritated as he feels. His mind begins a tirade against this _sexist, disloyal shit_ that is only interrupted by Louis' next question.

"Wait. If you're working at the Garrison, what're you doing auditioning here?" Oh yeah. His self-righteousness doesn't actually hold any water considering his own position. Well done, D'Artagnan, really well done.

"I'm… keeping my options open, I s'pose."

"Yeah, that's the smart thing to do. And, well, when Milady de Winter comes calling…" Louis gestures expressively. "She's not the kind of woman one says 'no' to, am I right?"

"…Right."

This at least, D'Artagnan cannot completely deny. Milady's appearance, greeting him this morning, had fully lived up to her breathtaking voice. She was all dark hair and inscrutable eyes, red lips, a clinging green dress with a low-cut neck. It was only Constance's matter-of-fact voice in his head, explaining to him precisely how one would cut that fabric to make it fall just so, that kept him on his feet.

"D'Artagnan," Milady had said warmly. "Welcome to the Cardinal Company. If you would follow me?" She smiled invitingly and ushered him down the sanitized hallways, speaking nearly constantly in a low and efficient tone.

"I'll take you into the main office to wait, and then another one of our stage managers will come and fetch you for the audition process. While you wait, I've got a list of forms for you to begin filling out – " she passed him a thick packet of papers from a folder he hadn't even noticed she'd been holding – "Shouldn't take longer than fifteen, twenty minutes."

She smiled again, this time looking directly at him.

"You're attractive," she said. "That's rather an advantage in our line of work."

D'Artagnan cocked an eyebrow at her. She hadn't been flirting with him, not exactly. She seemed to be gauging his reaction.

"Thank you," he said carefully. Her appraising look was feline.

"You're welcome. I'm sure you're told that quite often."

"Well," he shrugged. "I work with a lot of attractive people. So I guess I'm a bit overshadowed."

"Hm," she demured. "Perhaps. Tell me, how is everyone at the Garrison? Treville?"

"Getting by," D'Artagnan had replied, unsure of her intentions in asking. "I mean, working hard for the show next weekend."

"I'm sure. And… Athos?" There was something peculiar in her voice when she mentioned Athos' name. Like she was used to saying it with a much less casual inflection.

"You know Athos?"

"Oh, it's a small place, the theatre world in this town." She waved a manicured hand elegantly. "I know quite a few people from all over."

"Right… he's good."

"Mm. Just through here." They came into the main waiting area, a medium-sized room with one door coming in and two on the opposite wall.

"The one on the left is what you'll want to pay attention to," Milady says. "That one leads to our in-house rehearsal studios. The one on the right is for offices – namely, Richelieu's and mine. You'll go there when your audition's finished. Break a leg." Milady dismissed him with another curious look from her incredible eyes, and clicked away, leaving him here, now, trying not to clock Louis.

He turns back to the forms Milady gave him, but he can't focus. He thinks of the lobby of the Garrison, cramped and always smelling curiously of fresh paint, group pictures in costume, cast and crew grinning like fools, all over the walls.

The left-hand door opens with a bang that startles both D'Artagnan and Louis. The tech with the clipboard and the mohawk who greets them looks annoyed and exhausted, even though it's barely eleven in the morning.

"Um…" Mohawk scans his clipboard disinterestedly. "Dan – Darn – Donegal, you're up."

"Ah," says Louis, smiling. "Break a leg, Donegal. Donegal?"

D'Artagnan is already gone, having abandoned his forms on the coffee table and bolted as soon as he heard the first syllables of a name that was decidedly not his leave Mohawk's mouth.

* * *

"You're slow, Aramis," Porthos drawls, signaling for him and D'Artagnan to stop their sparring. The duel between Frederic and the Pirate King in the second act is the most complicated sequence in the show, but D'Artagnan's holding his own admirably, even at the bitter end of today's rehearsal. Aramis, on the other hand, despite his much more extensive practice, is sluggish and even he can feel it.

"What's the matter? You had the whole morning to sleep off whatever you did last night." Porthos manages to make this sound particularly lascivious, and where Aramis would normally dismiss it with a laugh and something clever, today he's irked. He lifts his sword again.

"Can we just get on with it?" Porthos' eyebrows shoot up. Aramis knows he's going to regret that little snit later – Porthos can read him like a book, will be able to tell exactly the subtle difference between tired and preoccupied. He won't ask – it's not his way. But he'll remember.

"Sure, yeah, fine. But pick up your goddamn pace, will you?" Aramis throws himself back into the duel, and this time it's D'Artagnan who's having trouble keeping up.

"Jesus," he pants, throwing down his sword. Porthos makes an affronted noise and snatches it off the ground, inspecting carefully for damage. "You're awake, we get it. Do we have it down now, Porthos?"

"You're good. I'll run you through if I ever see you treat one of my swords like that again."

"Ah, you're all talk. Hey come on, Aramis, you must've done something fun this weekend?" Aramis' stomach churns.

"No, nothing. Rehearsal and a few quiet nights in." And it is the truth, despite the looks Porthos and D'Artagnan exchange. He had done nothing at all, aside from working, a bit of light reading, and trying very hard not go completely out of his mind. Friday night had consisted of enough questionable decisions to make this a very serious process indeed.

By the time he had woken up Saturday morning, Anne had already gotten in the shower. Aramis thought seriously about joining her for a split second before deciding to be the gentleman and make breakfast. When she came out of the bathroom, dressed and in the process of tying up her damp hair, he presented her silently with a plate of eggs and a glass of orange juice. He was going to say something, but couldn't quite figure out what there was to say. Good morning? How are you? Er - that was nice? I have no idea where to go from here but hey, I'm not complaining?

She had looked at him a little helplessly.

"Oh," she'd said. "Aramis, I'm sorry. I have a few errands to run before my call time, I thought I'd just…" she made a vague motion towards the door. He set down the breakfast.

"Right, sure, yeah," he replied, smiling and doing his best to be casual. "Of course. I'll see you in a few hours."

"You will." She put her cool hand on his face then, her thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. "Bye, Aramis."

They've run into each other no more than usual, or even less seeing as Madame Treville's back at the theatre again, and Anne's been her ordinary self, professional and friendly. And ultimately, he would be lying if he said he didn't feel sort of used.

He can generally tell what most people want from him, who they want him to be. He's made a career out of it. He hadn't pegged her as the type to want nothing more than a quick fuck but if she is, then fine. He just wishes she'd said so up front, before he started thinking about what it was that _he_ wanted.

A far more nebulous and elusory thing altogether.

"Why, what did you get up to this weekend, D'Artagnan? Being the true disreputable youth among us?" Aramis asks eventually, returning his sword to Porthos and leaning against the back wall for a minute of rest.

To his surprise, D'Artagnan looks uncomfortable, and doesn't respond.

"What'd you do, D'Artagnan?" Porthos asks, scoffing. "Relax, I'm sure it wasn't that disreputable – you're like, offensively respectable."

"No, it's not that," D'Artagnan says. "Look, this morning – I promise I'm not going anywhere, and I definitely wouldn't before the show's finished its run – "

"You didn't," Aramis interrupts warily, his heart sinking.

"It was just an audition!" D'Artagnan says quickly. "And I hated the place, anyway, wouldn't have mattered how much – "

"Why didn't you tell us?" Athos' grave voice echoes across the stage, and D'Artagnan's face falls when he catches sight of the stage manager joining them.

"I… was just trying to keep my options open. You never know." Aramis glances at Porthos, whose demeanor is grumpy, but not overly concerned. He angles his head toward Athos, content to let him handle it. Aramis relaxes slightly.

"You don't," Athos concedes. "Next time, just say something. Who knows, might even convince Treville to actually pay you." D'Artagnan's shoulders drop.

"Thanks, Athos," he says, relieved. "For what it's worth, I'd stay anyway."

Athos' acquiescence came unusually quickly, Aramis thinks; he's a champion grudge holder, even over the picayune. That's progress, is what it is, and it makes Aramis forgive the kid instantly.

D'Artagnan glances enviously at the coffee in Athos' hand and smiles around at them. "Might go and get some nosh before I leave," he says. "Anybody want anything?" Aramis shakes his head.

"I'm good," Porthos says, and D'Artagnan starts towards the door. "Hey, D'Art, out of curiosity, where was the audition?"

D'Artagnan stops for second.

"Oh," he says. "Cardinal Company. I even met Louis – _what_ a _prick_. I'll see you tomorrow then!" He leaves before he can hear the crash of Athos dropping his mug of coffee.

Aramis hadn't realized that, in books, when people talked about their 'blood running cold' that it was anything other than poetic license. But no, when he sees how Athos goes whey-faced while Porthos runs off for a mop, he completely and utterly understands how it feels to have your whole body turn to ice water and dread.


	7. Intermission

_Scene: Three years, seven months, one week and two days ago _(no, Porthos, I'm not keeping track)_. A shabby but spacious loft apartment in the city, cluttered with two lives, a pair of black satin heels tossed in a corner, a large desk covered in newspaper clippings and Playbills, a picture frame containing the grinning metal mouth of a sandy-haired teenager, a vase of blue flowers. One wide, rumpled bed, low to the ground. Discarded on the night table, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and a diamond ring._

He's been typing quietly, trying not to wake her. It's no use; he soon feels her hands hovering over his shoulders, her dark hair sweeping into his peripheral view.

"Writing?" she murmurs in his ear. He leans back into her, closing the laptop.

"Editing," he replies. "Still… still editing."

"Surely it's just about perfect by now," she says sweetly.

"As talented as Thomas was," he says, "he was just a kid. It's close, though," he adds, turning and tilting his face up to hers for a kiss. "I promise I'm close."

She smiles against his lips and her teeth scrape him slightly.

"Good," she says, cupping his face in her hands. "I so want this to happen for you."

"Really?" He flicks his eyes over to the ring on his bedside table, illuminated by the slanting sunlight, and grins crookedly. "You're not at all concerned for yourself? Hoping your new fiancé doesn't turn out to be as broke as your boyfriend?"

"Oh of course I'm worried for myself," she pulls away, smirking, and walks over to the bed. She locks eyes with him and makes a grand show of sliding on the ring. "I always said I'd only ever marry for money, darling."

He watches, one eyebrow raised coolly, as she stalks back towards him and wraps her legs around his lap, rolling her hips into him. He grabs her waist for purchase and grits his teeth. She's bringing back too many memories of last night and they both have to work this morning.

"Luckily," she says, smiling and bending her head to bite kisses into his neck. "My fiancé's a very rich man. Rich in talent, in looks," she punctuates each phrase with another kiss, "in goodness, in love, and –" one hand has slipped down to his inner thigh – "other things."

"You," he half-gasps, half-groans, "are a shameless gold-digger." She laughs, full in her throat.

"Absolutely," and she wiggles her left ring finger in front of his face, bearing the gold he gave her. He takes her fingers and kisses the space where the metal meets the skin of her palm, and she sighs happily.

"I don't want you to get up," he begins with reluctance, releasing her hand.

"Afraid you'll embarrass yourself?" she says, looking arch.

"Oh, very. But that's beside the point. It's just that it's time for work."

"You couldn't have proposed on a weekend like an ordinary person," she says, exasperated, "and then we could have had three whole days. But no, Athos has to work."

"How else am I to keep you in the manner to which you've become accustomed?"

"Shut up," she chucks him on the chin and climbs off of his lap. He aches with the loss of her instantly.

On her way out that morning, she will tell him that she has a meeting, and that it's a surprise for him. He will think nothing of it, and he will forget that he has given her his laptop password along with his heart and his hand and most (but not all) of his secrets.

He will not remember that she has promised him a surprise of any kind until he stumbles home after another eternity biting his tongue against stupid decisions and squandered opportunities. Soon, he'll say to himself. Just a little longer, a little more hard work. And without really thinking about it, he will open his email.

When she returns, half an hour later, his laptop is closed and he's staring at it like he can't quite believe it's still there, and hasn't spontaneously burst into flames, or maybe turned to stone with the weight of what it contains.

She stops in her tracks.

"Oh," she says, sounding just a touch cross. "They were supposed to have let me break it to you first."

"No," he shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. It wasn't her, she couldn't have done it and yet no one else could possibly have done it. "No, it wasn't you. You didn't – you wouldn't have – "

She drops her purse and almost runs to him, grabbing the back of his swivel desk chair and spinning it around to face her.

"Please don't get worked up," she says evenly, soothingly.

"Don't get worked up?!" He clutches at his knees with stiff fingers.

She scans his face with something that is too hungry and cold to be real concern in her expression. He wonders why he has never noticed it before. When she speaks again, her voice is as gentle as it's ever been.

"No, darling, this is a good thing. It's what's best for you. I know you said you were close... but let's be honest, darling, you were always going to need a kick to finish this thing and now you've got one! And the royalties – "

"You think I give one flying fuck about the motherfucking royalties?!" His voice is still pitched low and vicious, and he'd forgotten he could sound this violent. She lurches back from the chair, pulling her shoulders up into that iron-backed posture he's seen so many times when they have fought.

It strikes him that she thinks this is just another fight.

"You sold Thomas' play," he says, marveling at the words. "You sold it and you know – you know – what it means to me and you – "

"I made the career decision you were never going to make," she finishes icily, and that's nowhere near whatever he was going to say. "You want to become a director? You want to move on in your career? This is how! You're a talent, Athos, you'll just never put yourself out there! Besides, they've agreed to let you direct this one, and they only had a few editing changes they wanted to consider – this is the best offer you're going to get, apparently the indie-troubled-adolescent thing is on it's way out – "

"It's not a thing," he hisses. The skin around her bright red lips is white with tension. "It's my brother's life, his life's work and you – you can't – " his hands are quivering, and he anchors them with fistfuls of his hair, standing jerkily. "They can't – take that from me, not when Thomas – not now he's gone – "

"He's been gone a long time, Athos," she says, soft but brusque. "We're at a new stage of our lives now. We have different responsibilities to consider."

His throat fills with sour liquid.

"No, 'we' aren't anything," he spits. "We have nothing." At this she stumbles backwards a little. And he feels gratified because her composure breaks and she is laid bare and it feels like he's never seen her before even though he knows every inch of her better than he knows his own soul.

"What?" she says. "What?"

He tears his eyes off her and collapses in the desk chair.

"Get out. You can take the ring, take whatever you want – you've already taken the only thing I cared about. Just get out."

"No," she says shrilly, rushing towards him with eyes wild. She seizes his face between her hands and forces him to look at her. "No, you don't mean that. We- we're engaged – you love me, you said you love me – "

"I said we're nothing," he repeats. "Nothing."

Her face twists cruelly and she slaps him, hard enough to make his jaw pop.

"Bastard," she cries, voice cracking with tears. "I was doing something for us, for once. You bastard."

He closes his eyes.

The last he will hear of her for a very long time is three sounds: her ring hitting the floor with finality; "I don't want your damn diamond"; and a slamming door.

He will suppose (rightly) that she picks up the rest of her stuff sometime during the drunken fog that is the next few days. He's always been a casual drinker, but this is his first spree. The next one will be bigger, badder, and arrive six months later.

Between then and now, he will call up the only two of his university friends who have ended up in the same zipcode, Aramis and Porthos. They will agree that they'd never liked her, that she was probably a psychopath, that Athos is better off. They will say Fuck Love! at the tops of their voices, and agree to help him get his directing project off the ground, finally.

It will not be his brother's play. Thomas' play will never see the light of day. The copy that her company purchased is incomplete, and he has refused any contract with them, for directing or writing or anything at all. He will continue to think he has stonewalled them, and start work on a new project, a recovery project, a simple bittersweet love story for which the best they can hope is that Aramis' acting might fetch them one or two favorable reviews.

And then, when six months have passed, he will open his newspaper to a double page spread about the "Most Hauntingly Lovely New Play on the Great White Way," all about a teenager with cancer telling his own story, a "humorous and aching rendition of Catcher in the Rye meets Our Town." The main character's name is Tommy; she is listed as the author.

He will miss rehearsal that day.

And for two more days after that.

Porthos and Aramis will find him amid the shredded remains of the Style section and at least three empty bottles of vodka that they can find. They will smash, violently in a back alley dumpster, the bottle of expensive brandy they also find waiting on his stoop, wrapped in green ribbon and bearing an envelope containing two of the hottest tickets currently on Broadway and a note reading 'eat your fucking heart out' in elegant cursive.

He will leave exactly twenty-four messages on her phone, half of them unintelligible and the other half unprintable. She will reply to none of them.

The Cardinal Company's new play will make them a fortune.

His own funding will fall through when his producer gets word of how inconsistent his work has become. The producer will not be shy about expressing disgust with the director and thoroughly demolishing his reputation.

Eventually the one and only reply he will get to any of his applications will come from an old drama school professor who's moved to the area and started a community theatre troupe.

He will cry into his hands, hidden and ashamed, when he hears that his friends have accepted jobs with Treville as well.

Two years, four months, and six days will pass, and very slowly, things will begin to change. He will begin to change.

Until one day it will all come hurtling horribly back to him, in a way he could never have expected; but then, she never had been one to be predictable.


End file.
